The First Day
by KateToast
Summary: The Mellarks bring their daughter to her first day of school, and Katniss does some worrying.


"_Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away." – Mockingjay, pg. 390_

**XXX**

There's a cool breeze this morning, a relief from the hot, humid summer that's been persisting – a reminder that autumn is close around the corner. Even the trees have taken notice, their leaves beginning to just change color, preparing to herald the upcoming Harvest season.

It was unnecessary for all four of us to have gone, to have taken the extra time to shuffle out as a family, but neither of us had wanted to miss this and the weather was such a nice, surprising change. So after a special breakfast, we'd gotten the baby ready and done a last-minute check of the all-important backpack, and then we'd been off, ready to deliver our daughter to her first day of school.

Hope forges ahead of us fearlessly, a joy to her step that I can't ever remember possessing as a child, especially on the way to school – those eight hours spent trudging from one mandatory class to another had only seemed like a resting period between the more pressing concern of finding my family's next meal. I imagine that when I'd been a very little girl, being walked to that crummy, dusty brick building by my father, hair in two braids instead of one, that I'd probably been happy – I might even have skipped in excitement, like my own daughter is doing now.

"You're leaving us in the dust back here," Peeta calls good-naturedly. I slow my steps so my husband can catch up, baby Bran's gray eyes wide with attention as he takes in the view from his father's strong arms.

"Hurry up!" Hope calls, not even looking back.

"Someone's excited, huh?" Peeta asks with a grin as we fall into step. He bounces Bran gently a few times, prompting the boy to giggle.

I nod absentmindedly, my gaze trained on my daughter's orange backpack. I'm trying to be in the moment – I want to appreciate Hope's first day of school at face value, and go through the normal feelings of normal parents, but all I can think of is those first few weeks after I'd realized what was inside of me, the precious life I was carrying. The fear that had grasped me, old and familiar, had been almost debilitating, and had been quickly followed by worry upon worry, the most daunting, haunting being: _how do we explain?_

Still that question lingers, and on this morning more than any other it taunts me. Hope knows only a little of our history, has heard tales here and there of the Panem of old, but she's been protected from the darkest, harshest details, and there are so many – _too_ many – of those for her to uncover. The Hunger Games, the rise and decline of President Snow and his sinister rule, the rebellion and its Mockingjay – these are topics covered in classrooms across the country now, topics my daughter will soon be learning of with little sense of just how close to home it all lies.

The school comes into view, windows clean and gleaming in an almost unbelievable way. It's a new school, of course, one of the many, many buildings that went up in the frenzy after the war, when natives returned to our destroyed District 12 and needed something to do. Bringing our home back from the rubble and ashes had seemed like the most logical and productive first step in figuring out the _Now what?_ that everyone had been asking each other. I can still remember the tears of pride and sorrow I glimpsed Peeta wipe away after a team helped him finish laying the foundation for the new Mellark Bakery in town, the ashes of his family long since blown away.

Other parents and their little ones are approaching as well, some faces familiar, many not. Teenagers descend also, some in packs, some in smaller groups of twos and threes, all emanating a strange new attitude I still find myself adjusting to. _They're not burdened_, Peeta had said when I'd brought it up to him, a few years ago. _Not in the way we were. _That _is why we did what we did – so these children could be happy, _fearless_ children. _

(It's unfair, really, how well my husband can put the confusing and unexplainable into just the right words, even now after the many horrible games we'd had to play are over.)

Hope is rocking back and forth on her heels when Peeta and I catch up. I kneel so I'm level with my daughter, taking her in, the way her blue eyes bounce as she coolly assesses the scene before her – an imitation she's obviously picked up from her mother, as Peeta likes to point out. Her wavy dark hair is in two braids, and I reach out and tug one. "What do you think?" I ask.

Hope turns to me and nods. "I'm ready."

"You aren't nervous?"

"Not really. Are _you_ nervous?" Hope asks, astute like her father.

I glance up at Peeta, sharing a brief but bracing look, and then smile at Hope, giving her braid another gentle pull. "A little bit."

"Why are you nervous, Mom?"

_Because I want to protect you forever, and I can't_, I want to tell her. "School's a big deal, sweet girl," I say instead. "You're gonna learn a lot."

"I know," Hope agrees, frowning.

"You may start learning things… about us, about me and Daddy."

"About you guys and the war? The things in the book?"

"Yes, exactly," I nod. "And we just…"

When I falter, Peeta intercedes: "We want you to know that if you have any questions, you can always come and ask us."

Hope glances between us, considering, and then shrugs. "I know that," she says amiably. "I always ask you guys my questions."

"Right," I agree.

"Keep doing that," Peeta adds, smiling. "Now come on, give me a kiss."

Peeta leans down so Hope can peck his cheek, and then does the same to her baby brother, who gurgles at her happily. Then she turns to me. I pull her into a tight hug, memorizing for the millionth time the feel of my daughter's strong little body, trying so hard to let go of the feeling of fierce possession I've had since the first time she was put into my arms. "I'll be here after school," I promise.

Hope nods as we pull apart, eager eyes already lingering over her peers, who are beginning to gather. "Okay," she agrees, flashing a smile, and then she's off.

"Good luck!" Peeta calls after her, and Hope turns and gives us one last wave.

We're quiet as we begin the short walk back home. Bran gets restless so Peeta puts him down, allowing the toddler to inspect passing flowers and curious bugs. The day is quickly growing warm, the earlier breeze becoming an afterthought.

"This morning you let Hope put her hair in two braids, just like in that picture of Prim, even though it was hard for you. The reminder. You let her have that connection to her aunt."

I can't help the half-smile Peeta's words produce – he's playing my game, without any preamble or discussion. The one I play when I need reminding of all of the good things that happen in life. One of the things I love about him, the way he embraces the silly, monotonous things I do to cope. "I could tell it was important to her."

"It was. And I also know that you've been so withdrawn today because you're worried," he continues.

"Am I that transparent?" I joke. We've had this discussion many times before, and will surely have it many times again.

"She's gonna be okay, Katniss," Peeta reassures, bumping against me. "They both will be. They'll understand… even if it takes a little while."

Bran has wobbled ahead, drawn to a cluster of pebbles in the path. I watch him lean down and look them over intently, the rising sun making his blonde hair shine. "Maybe we should've told her more."

"We've answered every question she's asked us. Even about the nightmares, and about my… episodes. It isn't like we're keeping secrets."

"It's a lot to take in," I say. "And we did… so many things. So many awful things. The nightmares don't even compare. Those aren't real… what we did is."

"A lot of people did a lot of awful things," Peeta reminds me. "We've told Hope that bad things happened. She knows that people died for a cause."

"But she doesn't know our roles in it, not really."

Peeta sighs softly. He does that sometimes when he's gathering his thoughts, figuring out how next to reassure me. "They were always gonna find out eventually. This isn't something that can stay hidden, and it _shouldn't_. It's… us, Katniss. It's _our_ history."

I think over my words. "I just want them to understand… that we did it _for_ them," I admit finally. "Even though we didn't know – didn't even _think_ – they would exist someday… just that they _could_ exist. In a free place where they don't have to live in fear of killing and dying for spectacle."

Peeta takes my hand; warm like the fresh bread he bakes, comforting. Sharing my innermost thoughts is still not the most natural act, despite the years my husband has spent chipping away at my walls.

"We'll tell them that," he says. "I don't want our kids to be afraid of us, for what we did, or of the world, because of how it was. I want them to feel braver for it. And so far I think we're doing a pretty good job," he adds, nodding towards their son, who is toddling full-speed towards the old Victor's Village gate. It's covered in ivy, the rusty words almost illegible. There are many more than just three occupants in the neighborhood now, twenty years since the world started over.

"Geese!" Bran shouts suddenly, pointing to Haymitch's yard. The flock that no one expected to survive even a week two decades ago is clustered to one side of the house. The kids love to play with the animals, feeding them stray breadcrumbs and rushing around to make them honk and take flight.

"We just have to deal with it as it comes. Together," Peeta says, tugging me to a stop by the front door as Bran adventurously climbs the steps. Peeta kisses my hand, and I crack a full smile at his earnestness. I know I'll never be fully ready, but with him I know it'll be easier.

"Always," I agree, an echo of a promise made long ago, one that was most certainly kept.

**XXX**


End file.
